


The End and The Beginning

by KylaBosch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaBosch/pseuds/KylaBosch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her wolf had been taken from her, but a Hound had come to take its place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End and The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> **Pairings/Characters:** Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane (future Sansan on the horizon?)  
>  **Disclaimer:** GRRM owns all! Im just borrowing the muses for a bit ;)  
>  **Rating:** K+ dark themes  
>  **Prompt/Summary:** Written for Aneedleofmyown as part of a GOT exchange her request was: Her wolf had been taken from her, but a Hound had come to take its place.  
>  **Beta:** A massive thank you to weshallflyaway for taking the time out of her crazy schedule to go over this piece for me! You freaking rock!

Sansa Stark finds herself alone in the dark forest of her dreams. The air is heavy, and it is a struggle to breathe. Bare feet press against cold stone, broken twigs, and stunted grass yet she feels no pain. It is cold outside; the chill of winter is felt against her skin beneath the light night shift she wears. A wolf howls at the night, and she cries for Lady.  
  
Lady is gone, a realization that makes her head swim and her heart ache. She draws her breath, but it is a struggle; something unseeing has tightened itself around her throat. Sansa knows she is dying, but she must continue onward to the river, for there, the dire-wolf awaits her. Only then will she find peace.  
  
The trees rustle and sway guiding her onwards as the wind blows against her back. Her voice is raw from crying out Lady’s name, as her eyes burn from the tears she has wept. Sansa is not afraid; she only knows that she must hurry. The further she goes, the more difficult it is to breathe. The great weight that has settled upon her chest, like the invisible noose around her throat, tightens. When she reaches the riverbanks she is gasping for air; her fingers clawing at her throat. Falling to her knees, she desperately prays to the gods, the old and the new, to fill her with breath. Her eyes, red and swollen with tears, continue to search out her dire-wolf, Lady.  
  
Suddenly Sansa hears a familiar growl and the heavy weight on her chest is lifted.  
  
‘Lady!’ she cries out in a voice raw and desperate. The direwolf howls, her mournful cry alerting the maiden to the distance between them. Across the rushing waters of the forked river, the great beast stands; within sight and beyond her reach. Something deep tugs at her soul; it grows stronger with each step she takes into the turbulent waters. Her body moves of its own accord, as though bound to a string that is being pulled taut.  
  
 _Soon you will be free_ the wind whispers in her ear, and Sansa smiles.  
  
The river’s current is strong, and the water is icy, yet she does not feel its chill. She is a child of winter, and knows no fear of the cold. The rocks are slippery, covered with moss and half rotted autumn leaves, but the maiden is sure footed. In the distance, standing on opposite shoreline, Lady continues to howl and bark, calling to her. Sansa moves onward as though in a trance, her body perfectly straight, her head held high; like the northern queens of old. The river churns, trying to pull her further into its watery grave, as the trees continue to shudder and shiver to the eerie wails of the blowing winds.  
  
Her hair of crimson whips and twirls to the autumn winds, only to catch onto a swaying branch from an over-hanging tree. One step forward, two steps back, and her footing is lost. Her world spins violently, as icy water hits her flesh like a wall. A white hot pain floods her senses, as inky blackness blinds her sight.  
  
In the distance, she hears a strange rasp like the growl of a wild dog, uttering words she cannot understand. A breath later, and she realizes it is none other than the voice of Sandor; the Hound. In the whistling of the wind Sansa thinks she hears King Robert’s voice, whispering truths she cannot yet comprehend.  
  
 _Get her a dog, she’ll be happier for it._  
  
Suddenly the solid strength of warm calloused hands wraps around her petite form lifting her from the cold water. The calm that pours over Sansa is all encompassing. For the first time in her life, she knows no fear; in his arms her soul finds its sanctuary. With a heart filled with peace, the young maiden slips from her state of dream, into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

  
  
Sandor Clegane is drunk, far drunker than usual. The Hand’s daughter had been found, but it came at the cost of sister’s dire-wolf, and the life of a little boy, proving the night to have been a wash. Tired and world weary he had sought the blissful promise of oblivion, the sort only Dornish sour could provide. When it did not come as he would have liked, he nearly beat a man to death for cheating at dice, before seeking to find a moment’s peace elsewhere. Restless, he took to wandering along the forked river. Enjoying the silence of the night air, the rich scents of the autumn winds and the sounds of the rushing waters of the river he finishes the last of his wine in peace.    
  
It is the hour of the wolf when he finds her barely breathing on the rocks of the river’s edge. At a glance, Sansa looks every bit the queen of winter in the moonlight, with her soaked nightgown of blue, and her skin of milky white. The tendrils of her fiery red hair is soaked with water and twigs; unfurling and licking at the moss covered rocks. A thin trickle of blood stains her pale cheek, reminding the Hound that something is terribly wrong.  
  
Instincts warn him to leave her be, nothing worth while can come from saving a dead girl. If he has learned one lesson in his life, it is that no good deed goes unpunished.  
  
 _‘Away with you dog, you’re scaring my betrothed.’_  
  
 _‘It was not him my prince, it was the other one.’_  
  
A faded memory from days ago replays in his mind, and Sandor knows what he must do. Breathing a heavy sigh, and muttering a curse, the Hound approaches the unconscious Stark girl. Her brow is hot to touch and upon further examination he can see her skin is growing flushed. Her breathing is shallow; still she is breathing and it is encouragement enough.  
  
‘Girl,’ he rasps as he attempts to rouse her awake. In his drunken state he cannot quite recall her name. She does not respond, but she begins to cough and it is enough. Entirely conscious of his current state of inebriation he carefully lifts the wounded girl into his arms as she stirs awake. Whispering something he cannot understand her arms wrap around his throat; tiny nails scratching the flesh of his back deep enough to draw blood. Sandor feels no pain, only a powerful sense of calm that is mistaken for the wine. As he departs for the Derry castle, some distant part of him muses at being marked by such beauty. The thought, along with the overwhelming sense of peace is immediately forgotten as more pressing matters consume his thoughts.  
  
‘You’re alright, girl, you’ll be alright,’ he murmurs, as he wonders how he will explain his discovery to her father, the King’s Hand. He then wonders if there is a maester, or a healer in the camp who is skilled enough to tend to the Stark girl’s wounds.  
  
As quickly as possible he approaches the small castle where the King’s Hand and his family currently reside. To Sandor’s surprise no one seems aware of her absence, there are no guards searching for her, no watchful patrol on the prowl. It is her wild young sister that he accidently awakens upon softly rapping on the door to their bedchambers. Like the girl in his arms, the wolf child looks worse for wear. Where the beauty in his arms clearly has been weeping, her younger sibling is utterly furious.  
  
‘What have you done to her? You leave her be!’ She growls in waving a tiny sword in even tinier hands.  
  
Sandor laughs, amused by the pup’s courage. ‘I just saved your sister’s life, you stupid little brat,’ he rasps. ‘The girl’s bleeding. Have someone tend to her cuts,’ he orders. The wolf girl gives him a scowl before turning back to the darkened room. He steps inside pausing only when the child motions to the small pallet by the window. ‘It’s her bed,’ she snaps. From the corner of his eye Sandor makes out the sleeping form of an old septa on another pallet nearby.  
  
‘Septa Mordane will tend to her wounds. Now leave,’ the wolf girl demands, leaving no room for questions. Being drunk and weary, the Hound nods in reply, not bothering to press the matter further. Carefully, he carries the pretty red-head to her straw pallet; she is soaked to the bone. Knowing she is certain to catch her death of a chill, he instructs the wolf girl to change her sister’s soaked nightgown, for something dry. The wolf pup rolls her eyes; she already has some dry garments in her hands.  
  
Setting the young maiden onto her bed, Sandor's fingers accidentally brush against the back of her neck. Her skin no longer feels feverish and her cheeks have lost some of their fire. Shrugging it off to his imagination, and the wine that has addled his senses, he takes a step back. The old septa is waking up and Sandor knows he must leave. The beauty’s father will need to know what has transpired and he intends not to keep him waiting. Turning to leave, he feels a small hand clasping his wrist. The girl, no, Sansa was her name, is awake, but clearly exhausted.  
  
‘Stay,’ she murmurs, and Sandor shakes his head; it is not his place. A good hound respects his wild brethren for they too, are noble creatures. He will not provoke them to anger.  
  
‘Your septa will tend to your wounds,’ he says. She studies his marred face in sad silence. The disappointment he sees in her blue eyes is brought on by his lack of comely features. Foolish girl clearly hoped that her prince would have come to her rescue, not his drunken dog. A flush of anger courses through his veins at the thought. The Hound leaves without another word, not trusting himself to hold his tongue. He ignores the old septa’s wary gaze, and the wolf girl’s frown. Buried in his dark thoughts, Sandor neither hears Sansa’s voice softly calling his name, nor her gentle plea for him to remain.  
  
That night he dreams of a grey northern bird crowned with fire. It sings songs far too sweet to fathom, while resting on the shoulders of a broken war hound whose face is marred beyond recognition. He does not understand its meaning, but for the first time since his brother destroyed his face, Sandor Clegane knows perfect peace.


End file.
